Becoming Soubi
by nuttycookie
Summary: A series of themed drabbles chronicling Soubi's development from an impersonal object into a 'real person' as he discovers his individuality and his own meaning of the word 'happiness'. One-shot. Warnings for both angst and excessive fluff.


Summary: Ritsuka has given Soubi a directive to 'become a real person'. It requires the spectacled fighter to decide upon his likes and dislikes, and what makes him 'happy': a simple task for anyone _other_ than the blonde sentouki. As their relationship deepens and the pair becomes bolder in their intimacy, Soubi discovers some surprising truths about himself, and what happiness truly means to him as a newly developing person.

A/N: One-shot series of themed drabbles. Written in a chronological, first-person style, reminiscent of a dream: is Soubi recalling events that still feel immediate and real to him, or are his thoughts detailing present situations as they come? The reader may decide. Warnings for extreme, borderline excessive amounts of fluff, M/M relationship (sans sexual content), and references to violence and abuse/rape. Spoilers for anime-only fans. Para/post-manga current manga (as of June 2014). If you're looking for hentai/hardcore yaoi…sorry, not here. An abundance of love is here, nonetheless.

Enjoy, gentle reader.

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_Happiness_...

Happiness is something I find _extremely _hard to define. I suppose I may have been happy with my parents at some point, but I cannot say so for certain. I can only struggle to grasp at a fleeting, ambiguous memory of their faces and voices, let alone any feelings attached to such a distant point in my younger life.

Happiness may have existed with Ritsu, I think. He had opened his home to me, trained me, instructed me…touched me. I came to both love and hate darkness as he created a new being from the ignorant child he had taken in. He taught me the value of my true purpose as an indefinable 'it', so that I would not be bothered with the pain of physical abuse and spell battles, or of whips and carefully spun words. Even the drives and temptations of my maturing, teenaged body grew dim and unnecessary. Unwelcome, even. Sexuality would never become a weakness for me. Neither would attachment to another person. I would become content with my new master, Ritsu-sensei had insisted, as he left me with black-eared young man.

Happiness was when Seimei issued an impossible demand, a tight-lipped commandment delivered with erect ears, steeled eyes, and clear impatience: though I hadn't heard or felt or seen the younger teen in days, it seemed I was never at his side soon enough when he called. I could be happy fulfilling his desires and pleasing him as a well-crafted tool rightfully should. It was a struggle, but I would be content. I learned that pain could be harder to deal with when it wasn't physically induced, but just when I thought I could manage anything any master could require of me, Seimei taught me otherwise. Seimei cared not for the state of my body, my heart, or my soul, so long as its condition did not impede on the success his ambitious plans. He was demanding, but I needed the stability of his insatiable orders. I craved them. I would _not_ disappoint him, and would be rewarded with the privilege of remaining at his side. And I would be happy so long as he wasn't _displeased _with me.

Happiness became more difficult to define once Seimei passed me along to his younger brother after his supposed 'death'. Beloved was no more, but I would not be shaken. My compass and anchor had disappeared and left me behind, taking with it what concept of pleasure I had. Once it was pain. Fulfilling an order. Pleasing a master, hoping I would be kept another day as a result of giving endless blood, sweat, and unshed tears. But of course, I remind myself that had never been given a true master. Ritsu-sensei was right, after all. I am a _blank_, a substitute, and will belong to no one, at least not permanently. Never. Even Loveless tells me I should belong to none but myself, and so Loveless refuses to take ownership of me, regardless of his brother's wishes. I tell myself that this boy must surely hate me, for he has already discarded me before even gracing me with the opportunity to serve or even _try _to display some semblance of value to my existence.

But Loveless also tells me that happiness comes from being a _person_, not a _thing. _A person is someone with a unique identity, he as such, being a person apparently involves things such as possessing 'a personality', having opinions, and being a part of groups of other people. A person makes memories and is remembered by others. A person is independent. But I have never particularly _liked _or _disliked _anything, apart from my master's own preferences and commands regarding my behavior. Opinions that differ from others cause discord and arguments and anger, and that is impermissible. It's frightening. Fights occur because people disagree, and the lesser will be forced into submission anyway. But my young sacrifice takes it upon himself to draw these strange things out of me, and force me into 'becoming a real person', and he puts it.

Kio asked if I like butterflies for the umpteenth time, pointing out in utter redundancy how often they appear in my artwork as he peers at me. I tell him that I actually hate the little creatures, to which he brushes aside my response and calls me a weirdo before thrusting a horrendously blue lollipop in my face. It almost sticks in my blonde locks and I growl. He makes a comment about it matching the color of my eyes with his voice low and supposedly sensual as he slowly licks the sugary thing…and I decide that I most certainly do _not _like this conversation whatsoever. However, I am grateful for his abrupt change of topic, so as to avoid explaining how the tiny winged insects that I so frequently paint remind me of myself. I would sound like a complete narcissist, and would never hear the end of it from Kio. I would much prefer for him to drop into a sugar-induced coma on my floor and sleep for a few hours. Perhaps he awakens I could seduce him into another long sleep by way of a cheap six-pack. I won't drink that putrid excuse for a beverage in the first place, so he can gladly overindulge in it for all I care.

I like cigarettes. Mostly for the comforting rush of nicotine, I admit; I am aware that smoking near a school isn't commendable, but today I really don't care who reprimands me. I also realize that I dislike that teacher—Shinonome, was it?—but not for anything blatantly _wrong_ that she has done to my sacrifice or to myself. She is actually a good, kind person, from what I have seen. However…she is several years my senior, and yet her innocence flips its head at me defiantly as her ears twitch and flatten at my hard gaze. As I watch her tail swish behind her departing form, I am reminded of feelings of helplessness and restriction and…other unmentionable things, none of them pleasant in hindsight. I remember how it felt to be drawn magnetically to a person in a post-intimate moment, yearning for some form of reassurance or praise to smooth over the pain and exploitation, but instead to be thrown out of the shadowed room harshly without a word. I close my eyes in recollection. I feel cold and naked and ashamed and utterly alone. I feel filthy and used and despicable. I learned then what it felt like to be abandoned, cast aside, left behind, told that I am dirty and unworthy of anything pleasurable…and then a bright yet irate voice draws me out of my self-deprecating haze and into an awkward, unexpected embrace. I would rather not tell my young sacrifice the true nature of my thoughts, and for the first time he does not respond crossly. Instead, he strokes the inside of my wrist gingerly with impossibly soft fingers and asks me to accompany him for ice cream. I take no notice of the glances sent our way as I lean back upon his school gate, grounding myself for a moment in the familiar surroundings before nodding assent. We go home with our tongues and noses chilled from the frozen treat, and as I lean over to lick some off my sacrifice's bandaged cheek, the lingering taste of strawberry and rich chocolate syrup outshines the halfhearted protest I receive.

Happiness could most certainly be seeing the deep tomato and bell pepper flush of Loveless' face as he steps in front of me after exchanging nippy, frosty words and angry glares with his brother. I'm on my knees, trying to hide the pain the tremors through my body, focusing instead on how my sacrifice is simultaneously adorable and incredibly frightening to me in that moment. He turns on his heel to face me with fierce eyes, flattened ears, and a lashing tail, and had he been like his brother, I would have surely received a slap across the face, if not something harsher. Instead, he kneels and places a petite hand against my neck, watching as my 'BELOVED' mark bleeds more than ever after having disobeyed direct orders from my former master. He leaves the one hand there and allows the crimson ink to stain his milky skin as he mutters both cross words of frustration and equally beautiful promises, and my pulse throbs against his palm. His other hand brushes aside the single tear that had been trailing down my cheek, and my breath catches. He notices and chuckles low in his throat, drawing me back to my feet and lending me his strength with an unmistakably affectionate kiss. He is insistent, with a newfound confidence, and I drink it in greedily.

Happiness is once again painful for a moment as his dark head lowers in exhaustion after insisting on taking the damage in this fight. He asserts that he should have done so all along as my sacrifice, and does not mind fulfilling his role. However, I can sense his distress resonating somewhere deep within my very being, and it's apparent to my mind and heart that this battle has to end. Now. And so I revel in Nisei's look of shock and horror and utter rage, as I oblige to Loveless' command to finish the fight 'so that we can go home'.

Today, happiness is deciding that milk chocolate tastes better with black coffee than dark chocolate does. It is admitting that I really dislike painting landscapes, at least when asked to depict them in strict realism. Happiness is telling Kio these things and seeing the moronic, open-mouthed expression of surprise he exhibits before laughing obnoxiously in my face. Happiness is fighting with him over what to order for take-out, because I have apparently gained a rather vehement, 'stubborn' attitude in regard to both fast food and cheap wines, respectively. And when my sacrifice shows up at my door on White Day with a small box of assorted chocolates and a single white lily—roses are 'far too cliché', he insists—my heart soars. I wrap him up in my arms and ignore his protests, chuckling and promising to take him to McDonalds later, despite my repugnance for the place. After all, if his willingness to come to my door with such a rosy, embarrassed expression out of consideration for _me _could make me this _happy_, certainly I could return the favor. He settles down after a while, snuggled securely against my chest as I carry him bridal-style out the door with what I'm sure is an idiotic smile across my face. I really don't care.

Happiness is feeling the warm tug of my master's—no, my _partner's_—call. It's an insistent yank felt somewhere within my soul that drags me eastward towards his high school. I find him waiting for me, tapping his foot and flicking his fluffed-out, inky tail in disapproval when I kiss the back of his hand. He insists that we are equals now, not master-and-servant, and weaves his slender fingers with mine as we walk. Our steps are not quite in sync, but his head reaches my shoulder now. He's getting so tall, I muse; surely he will pass up his brother in height one day, although he has already surpassed his brother in terms of maturity, intellect, and the sheer size of his compassionate, ever-patient heart. I glance over at the bond between us: it's knitted rather haphazardly together from two cut, frayed cords, with an overabundance of knots for the sake of our collective peace of mind. But it's there nonetheless and I relish the delicious, thrumming ebb and flow of my partner's presence as it throbs strongly against my own. I pull on the now-teenager's hand until he collides with my own body midstride, and I laugh openly as he growls, curses at me, and yet proceeds to nuzzle his finely chiseled face against my clavicle nonetheless. We walk again side by side, our hips brushing and his ears flicking about on top of his head. He slips an am around my back, and one skilled set of fingertips draws gentle circles and squiggles and nonsense words across the ribs at my side. It's ticklish there, and he knows it. I beam, overjoyed.

Happiness is teasing my sacrifice for being such a bookish nerd as he pours over his homework, muttering something about Nietzsche and Jung and maple syrup and an English word I don't understand. I'm confused by his outburst, glancing over my glasses from where I am perched against his windowsill, but I can't help but smirk regardless at his obvious, absolutely _adorable_ frustration. Half a breath and two wide steps later, the softness of his silky ears warms me from the inside out as I stroke them. His entire face flushes, he yells just a little, shoving me with halfhearted roughness…and the next thing I know, we've become a tangled mess of long limbs, discarded scarves and shoes, and giddy laughter on the floor. I discover that he's _terribly _ticklish at the base of his neck and the bottoms of his feet—it's only fair, I tell myself as he jumps me again, attacking my sides mercilessly. Oh, his midriff is also quite sensitive, apparently…good to know. I clutch his bundled form to my chest and our frantic gasps slowly even out. I nip the ear closest to me, amazed that he doesn't jump away or sputter furiously at me. He purrs loudly against my neck, and I'm over the moon.

Happiness is being dragged across a darkened, familiar room by insistent yet kind hands while my partner's hushed whisper quivers with concern. Concern for _me. _My young master's order tonight is that I tell him what made me fall so quiet during a seemingly normal banter with the Zeroes, who are staying the night again. I shouldn't say he ordered me though, because my sacrifice does _not_ command me harshly, despite his palpable frustration at my dodging explanations. The words of 'I know they hurt you' and 'stop lying, I know that you're _not _okay' and 'don't hide from me' cause my body to flinch unintentionally. His ears perk and his words cease. He sets me beside him on the bedspread, kicking the door shut with his foot, and lays his head on my shoulder. He murmurs into my ear that he wants to understand me, and the person I really am. He begs to know what's wrong and what hurts, and pleads with me to share my heart with him. I decide to tell him then that he is the first and only person to insist that I even _have_ a heart at all. So I talk. I _hurt_. His eyes are wide and his grasp on my forearm is unnecessarily tight. But he insists that he wants to hear it all, that he needs to know where the pain is, and he promises not to interrupt—or worse, leave my side for any of it. I fall to pieces almost as quickly as he does.

Happiness is hearing his voice coming through the small underpowered speaker of my cell phone, complete with static, speaking my name just a little bit roughly. The incessant ringing had interrupted my focus and caused me to drop my full palette as I rushed to the other end of the apartment. Paint on the floor will NOT make Kio happy…but the voice that cuts through the noise is shyly tentative and impossibly caring as he asks how I'm feeling today and if I need any more cold medicine. I pause, stunned, and ask instead if he would like to meet me for tea down the street. I have a craving for it today, but I don't even get through explaining the request as such when he interrupts with a light squeak. He accepts gleefully, and I can almost hear him bouncing on the balls of his feet on the other end. I hang up and decide that painting and cleaning my mess can wait until tonight: I have a date with the cutest black-eared sacrifice in the world. In 20 minutes.

Happiness—the very _best_ happiness, I'm convinced—is warm. It's tender and quiet and free from harm. It's safe, it's secure and I would like more than anything to stay in its hold and call it 'home'. It smells like lavender and pine and a hint of cinnamon. It feels like a cotton shirt, fluffy socks, and a slender frame beside me. Happiness is a place where I find myself buried beneath a perfectly heavy comforter, stretched out atop a soft, fluffy mattress, with my head resting not on a downy pillow, but a firm yet small chest. It's found in the gentle, delicate sound of Ritsuka's heart pitter-pattering steadily against my ear. Happiness is recalling that it was my sacrifice who brought me into into his arms without prompt, embracing me with a request to set the camera aside from 'making memories' and instead to 'share an intimate moment' with him, with far less shyness than I would expect from him. Happiness is togetherness, and it's unconditional. It's the one hand resting motionless between my shoulder blades, not commenting on my scar-crossed back, and the other hand carefully running through my hair, pausing to caress the single set of ears that I still possess. That alone feels like heaven. It's the murmur of 'you're really beautiful, you know' and 'I'm glad you're here' between his soft, measured breaths that tickle me in places I didn't know existed, even though we haven't budged yet from our loose embrace. Happiness is suddenly a kiss that starts at the fading script of 'BELOVED', careful to not reopen the new, superimposed slash mark that still bleeds when we're not careful changing the bandages. The kiss moves down to my collarbone, yielding a twitch of my foot, and it ends, lingering, over my own heart. I can feel my pulse jump to a rate much too high and much too erratic, and suddenly I'm crying out with quiet pleas of 'don't leave' and 'I love you' in response to the touches. In the past, Ritsuka would have shoved me away and screamed bitterly about how I couldn't possibly mean those words…but his lips remain stationary there on my chest and he mewls encouragingly, snuggling closer and kissing me there again. I have never felt so…so…

_Loved. Worthy. __**Happy.**_

Happiness is equality, belonging to a person who wants you to belong WITH them, as a person.

Happiness is being told you're beautiful and handsome and attractive even as you feel a pair of eyes darting across your vast collection of ugly, rippling scars...and then feeling those probing eyes turn into affectionate fingers just so you can know that the words of praise are honest and true and not just a dream.

Happiness is when someone grumbles and flushes when you compliment them, but then beams radiantly and ruffles your hair when you laugh at his reaction. Happiness can be shared in the most ridiculous circumstances.

Happiness is someone who finds the deep, dark places where it really hurts the most, places that should be impossible to see...and then slowly, methodically kisses the pain away. Happiness is making you forget the strikes and the whip and the stolen ears and replacing it all with new memories filled with kindness, gentle embraces, and infinite patience. Happiness is slowly healing even the oldest, forgotten scars along with the bleeding wounds.

Happiness is being loved by someone who would trade their very soul for yours, and considers the two of equal value.

Happiness is feeling that same love with every fiber of your being, and experiencing it with every sense...and then some.

For me…happiness is being with a certain person. It _is _a person.

Happiness is a certain Ritsuka Aoyagi.

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A/N: As a little side note, white lilies traditionally symbolize purity, chastity, and virtue. The lily Ritsuka gives to Soubi is a white lily of the valley, which additionally embodies humility and devotion, and is often given on a couple's second anniversary.

A sequel/retelling will be posted upon its completion. Reviews are deeply appreciated.


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